


Home by the Sea

by donttouchthefigs



Category: Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: F/M, Gen, a little bit of column A, all of column b, post Chesapeake, pre red dragon too maybe, pre silence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:22:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22780117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donttouchthefigs/pseuds/donttouchthefigs
Summary: A collection of short stories, vignettes, and drabbles (and some AUs) post-novel and pre-novel, too short to be separate fics, but worth the writing. Snippets of Clarice and the Doctor's life and possible futures.
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter/Clarice Starling
Comments: 9
Kudos: 50





	1. Tea Roses and Towels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Clarice celebrate their first Valentine's day after Chesapeake.

The master and his wife were odd people.

Anya Delarosa, a sturdy woman with a good keen head on her shoulders would never say this to anyone but the audience of her own thoughts, but it still stood that Dr. and Mrs. Dickinson were odd people.

Firstly came their staffing choices. Not that Anya was complaining, but she did, by and large, have scant experience. She had worked since she was sixteen as a maid, but nothing as grand as the _Palacio Duhau_. Her family had been in service, her mother even working at the nearby French Embassy. At the woman's side, Anya had learned a basic, casual level of many languages and the ways of rich foreign men. And that was mostly to stay away from them.

But Dr. Dickinson was not like most of the men who Anya had met in her years of service. There was an unsettling keenness about him, and he tended to stare right through you-but he was all easy manners and politeness. However, Anya saw the steel underneath he and his wife. She knew with all the instincts of survival in a business like service she would tolerate no dalliances on his part, and he would not forgive the maid that attempted any on him.

Anya would not like to know what it was to lose their favor.

After an odd interview that included the usual grilling of her credentials, history, and experience, they had asked her to walk the _Palacio Duhau_ with them. Newly bought it was still in a state of unwrapping, linens covering most of the furniture and the windows mostly shuttered from the bright Argentinian sun. They had explained her duties, how they needed an active sort of person to finish their work in the relatively short hours they would give. It was a plum deal, Sundays off, short hours in a fine house. She'd be a fool to pass it up.

Anya had watched them just as they watched her, and she noticed immediately that senora was the less experienced of the two in interviewing the help. She was young and beautiful, and had a furtive eye, but not the hesitant wonder that usually clung to these types of girls. The women who spied older men with fine frames and fat wallets, marrying before they missed their chance. Anya had wondered if the senora's flowing peasant blouse hid a bump of a little master, but no. No, this woman was in command of herself, and instead of following in step behind senor, was often referred to, asked her opinion, and including her wholly in the conversation.

This was not the typical marriage that came to reside in the big houses. In fact, Anya had asked them quietly if they were newlywed, seeing how their touches were never accidental-no casual holding of hands or leaning of bodies. Their glances were still fleeting, their smiles still private and charged. There was no ease of time, nor was there the cool tolerance of an advantageously banal match.

And their rings still shined.

The question had surprised senora, and Anya had wondered if she had coast herself the job, with the searching look the woman gave her. But senor had nodded with a smirk and kissed his lady's knuckles before going on to explain how they wished for a stark separation between their private rooms and the rooms that would be used when entertaining.

It was odd, and even odder when later that week they had offered her not only a position, but a position as the housekeeper, responsible for the entirety of the estate, and when fully moved in, in hiring the rest of the staff. She started immediately, and was paid a little extra to help senor cook, as he was being even harder on the chefs he interviewed than she. But a cook was found in due time, a creative man with some experience but not extensive-just like Anya herself. Even worse, he had the baggage of a wife and children.

Rico had not made the flashiest dish in the world for his test with senor, and, listening as she cleaned the hall outside the kitchen, thought he was about to be thrown from the house when he blatantly said that using the ingredients in senor's kitchen had limited him. But Dr. Dickison had merely asked what he would have done differently, had he access to what he wanted. The discussion turned extremely technical after that and Anya respected the man for his boldness if nothing else.

But even the limited dish seemed pleasant enough to the doctor, and the man was kept on. Anya was beginning to believe that the masters ran more on amusement than anything else. She also believed it was a good thing she was amused by very little. There needed to be at least one sensible head in this house. For that reason, Anya immediately took to senora.

But the oddest thing came on Valentine's day, two months into her service. The house was still being set up, and for now, it was only she and Rico serving as they both searched for the rest of the staff (senor and senora were very exacting, polite enough to look at all of their candidates, but rejecting most for some reason or another).

This day was when Anya thought she truly must be working for the strangest people in the world, as she looked at the tasks before her.

Senor had come home with three bouquets of coral tea roses. After his usual courteous greeting, he had handed them to Anya and asked that she prepare them in a basket for his wife.

"Shall I tie the basket with ribbon? And ribbon around the stems," she'd asked, smiling despite herself. It wasn't a grand or tacky gesture. Simple flowers in a simple arrangement, acknowledging the holiday without giving in to the garishness of the date.

"No, thank you, Anya. I need you to cut off the stems entirely. Leave only the blossoms in the basket. But, a ribbon around the basket would do nicely, I think."

She had schooled her features well enough and simply nodded. When the master had returned upstairs she had looked down at the bouquets and let out a soft " _Que_?" Perhaps he meant to set them afloat in the fountain? Or perhaps spread them on top of her bed? Or perhaps he simply was going to toss them on her like the roses on wedding guests in that odd painting the master had bought last week.

And then senora had come home, wielding a large white box with a blue ribbon. Anya had quickly shoved the flowers into Rico's pantry, much to his huffing and blustering about the scent mingling with the spices. Inside the mistress' package was a lovely set of fluffy white towels. "Shall I hang these in your bathroom, senora," Anya had asked, grateful when Mrs. Dickinson held one out for her to feel. They were plush, and soft and would be wonderful on the skin when warmed. The hand towels had lovely little antique gold elephants stitched on the edges.

"No, Anya. In fact, take this one." Mrs. Dickenson took one of the hand towels and gently folded it. "And wrap it, please."

"Wrap with paper," Anya had asked slowly.

"Yes, it is my gift for the doctor. Just one, I'll give him the rest later."

"Very well, senora."

Now, standing at the kitchen island, wielding scissors, wrapping paper, basket, and ribbon, the housekeeper hesitated. _They are too strange,_ her mind cried. Who would give decapitated roses as a Valentine's day gift?! Who would give a single towel as a gift at all?!

_At least they are strange like this. Senora could be cruel, and senor could be funny with children. You've seen worse things from worse people. At least they are merely odd. Boring and odd._

"Work or go," Rico said, making room for his dishes.

"I am! I...do you know he wants me to cut all the roses to pieces?"

"And?" The cook shrugged, the knife in his hand flashing in the quickly setting sun. "So they are strange? Do it and leave me in peace to cook."

Anya shushed him loudly. It was fine to simply state what they had been told to do-but to give an actual opinion was bad form for a servant. "I did not say that, and you shouldn't either."

"Why not? They are not normal. They come here with all their money and live in only one part of the house. They start out with separate bedrooms and yesterday they ask me to help slide the furniture into one. They're odd, but they pay good and his hand doesn't go up your dress. Cut the damn flowers and go."

"How they hired you with that mouth! You sound like you're from the docks."

"Where do you think I got this?" Rico lifted the metal lid off the fish resting on ice, smirking. Shaking her head, Anya took the first flower and snipped, smiling too as much as the joke was worth. Rough as he was, odd as this house seemed, in the end, her morale was high. Confused, but content.

She hid the flowers in the dining room, where the master was setting up the candles. The many, many candles. Anya eyed their placement, already charting out how to clean the wax up the next morning. He was dressed in a fine dark blue suit-again strange for what seemed to be a formal dinner if Rico's menu was to be a clue.

Then she ferried the wrapped towel up to Mrs. Dickison, where she was attempting to braid her blonde locks before the mirror. On the grand bed were laid out several choices of gowns. Anya eyed them and approved of senora's taste as she laid the wrapped gift on the bedside table. There was a flowing black chiffon gown with a dropped back, a cream frock with a beaded jacket that shone gold in the low light, and white silk with an empire waist and nouveau inspired.

"Do you need anything else wrapped, ma'am?"

"No, thank you, Anya." Mrs. Dickinson said this through the pins she had clamped in her teeth. She was good at attending to her toilette, having yet to look anything but composed when the servant saw her. But Anya could see a novice's touch in her fingers when it came to more complex styles of hair. Flyaways and baby hairs, chignons dropping from lack of pinning. Things learned in time, and senora seemed like a quick study.

"Shall I steam one of the gowns?"

"Yes." Senora stuck the last pin in and looked over her attempt before shaking her head and taking the braids out, combing it with her fingers. Her hair was a little too short still to attempt the faux crown she had wanted. Wandering over to the bed, Mrs. Dickinson considered her choice. Her fingers hovered over the delicate beads of the cream gown before taking the white and handing it to Anya. "This one."

"Very pretty," Anya agreed.

"Yes. And this one-" Again she touched the beaded gown, "Please store this away."

"Yes, ma'am. Is it your wedding gown?" The way her mistress was looking at the garment, how her fingers ghosted over the fabric, as if proximity alone gave her warmth, it must have been a very special garment. And Anya had seen women run off and get married in any number of things, and certainly things far worse than the lovely cream satin. When trying to steer rich men into matrimony before they sobered up, one did not always have time to change for the ceremony. And sometimes the slinky party dresses such quick unions were decorated with were better than the monstrosity girls picked out when planning their lavish near-royal nuptials.

Again that sharp, clear look from senora. All at once Anya felt she had misspoken as Mrs. Dickinson's eyes assessed her, sweeping her up and down. What did she search for in Anya's simple question? It seemed that the mistress found it for she softened after a moment and nodded.

"Yes. Yes, it is my wedding gown. I don't believe I will bring it out again except for special circumstances. But I don't want it to be damaged hanging so long in my closet." Senora smiled to herself before taking the black gown and putting it away. "Thank you, Anya. That will be all."

Dinner was almost ready to be served when she heard the mistress enter their private dining room, with its table only big enough only for two, only a little larger than the table on the terrace. When Anya brought in the wine from where it had been chilling in the kitchen, senor was presenting his wife with the flowers. Mrs. Dickinson smiled at them, bending to inhale their scent. One hand cupped a blossom carefully, expecting there to be a stem to carefully extract from the arrangement. When it came up freely, her brow rose before her coral lips pulled back in a grin.

"Just the heads, doctor?" Her grin widened as she tucked the flower into her simple chignon. "I have to say these are better smelling, at least. Is there a butterfly tucked in there somewhere?"

Anya watched them grin at each other over the flowers for a brief second before disappearing to fetch the first course. When she returned, the master was carefully tearing the paper off his gift. The towel fell into his hands, and he lifted it to inspect the stitched animals.

Then he let out a laugh, a truly genuine laugh. When he grinned this wide, Dr. Dickinson showed the dimple in his right cheek. It seemed their bizarre gifts were a hit. "You never did return it."

"I'm afraid it was left in my closet, with the poem and your origami."

The senor wet his lips at that, and the air in the room changed. Not entirely sexual, though the look they shared was charged. But the doctor seemed genuinely moved by her words, at the act of keeping his trinket. "Anya," he addressed the girl without looking. "Tell Rico that you are both relieved for the evening."

Nodding she inquired about the rest of the meal, and the senor assured her they would see to it themselves. However, Anya had a feeling that all of Rico's hard work was about to be wasted, as well as the steaming of senora's white gown. Hurrying back down to the kitchens, the servants quickly cleaned up and covered the dishes before gathering their coats.

From above they heard the master's laugh again. Rico merely shrugged with a smile. He was glad to go home to his wife and salvage what was left of the day. Anya too was happy to be able to return home before midnight, but even as she allowed her pleasure to wash over her, she recognized the foundations of loyalty beginning to form in her mind. Iron bands, still hot from the oven, malleable but would soon cool with time and routine to strength and longevity.

 _That's exactly what they wanted_ , she mused. _These private people._

She had a feeling she and Rico would be long in this house, long with this odd couple, where discipline was kept, but happily so. As she wandered down the streets towards her apartment on the other side of town, tugging her jacket closer over her black uniform, she wondered if perhaps _she_ was the odd one.

In the great houses, sex and money were treated much the same, emotions kept locked tighter than the family jewels; the decorations and menus given more attention than the living beings that dwelt within the walls. So to work for a couple with not only a genuine affection for each other but something like friendship was almost alien to her experience. Something Anya expected in her own inner circle, but not of the people she kept house for. Perhaps it was Anya, so ingrained in the world of the wealthy, that had become strange like the rest of high society.

Maybe the doctor and his wife were truly the only sane people in the glittering madhouse of Buenos Aires.

It was an interesting thought, in any case.

* * *

The painting Hannibal buys is _The Roses of Heliogabalus_ by Lawrence Alma Tadema


	2. Hannibal and The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Christmas Eve Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young Hannibal Lecter has a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad Christmas Eve's eve.

**December 23, 1965**

Dr. Lecter was not having a good holiday week.

Of course, the Christmas season was never the easiest at the hospital, especially if you were fool enough to pull overtime shifts in the ER. Everything from the end results of domestic disputes in visiting families, kitchen accidents and suicide attempts poured in and working with a skeleton crew of those unfortunate not to get leave, or unfortunate enough to not have their religious holidays directly at Christmas time, made the overload even more burdensome. But as a young man attempting to save enough not only to buy his own apartment but start up his own business he needed all the hours he could get.

Still, the end of this grueling fourteen-hour day was almost more than he could bear. He ducked into a supply closet, closing the door out from the dings of room alarms and jingles of the decorative bells at the nurse's station amidst the shrill phones demanding attention. He took a deep breath, mouth turning down as he inhaled the stinging scent of cleaning supplies and smoke from snuck cigarettes.

On top of it all now that he had a taste for the mind-stimulating and sedate nature of psychiatry, returning to the physically taxing and rather routine act of treating wounds and emergency medicine was more grueling. He would be glad to launch his own practice, away from the hospital with its petty ladder climbing and ironic disregard of health.

Lecter himself was no patron saint of ethics, as the river just outside of town could boast, having seen him more often than once with evidence that needed to disappear, however, he did not understand the attitude of taking vows-and expensive years of education-to disregard it all once out in the field. His colleagues were more interested churning out unintelligent and pathetic papers that were more for supporting their name than any actual new theories and picking out the prettiest nursing students to bed. It was all so typical and worst of all, boring.

He would be glad to get out of the hospital with its shifts and reeking of alcohol and linoleum while his scrubs and clothes stuck to him with sweat from his hustle and bustle. He, unlike many doctors, even the new and residents, actually strove to work as hard as the nurses and aides rather than breeze in with a list of demands to pile preciously on top of their other duties. More than anything it was his distaste for his colleagues than any real hatred of medicine and surgery that was the driving force behind his fervent wish to exit this vocation.

With another deep breath of blessedly cool air in the darkroom, he checked his watch by the chink of light from the doorway. One more hour to go, almost dinnertime. Then he'd run back to his house and bid his roommate goodbye before grabbing his suitcase. He was leaving this chaotic bustling city for the countryside and Abigail Reynolds' father's estate.

Miss Reynolds was a pretty but unintelligent young girl who came from a very old-money family that dabbled in everything from hotels, theaters to high-end restaurants. They had met at one said restaurant-an establishment Hannibal had worked for years before when he first made land in America fresh from the French jail-house but before his internship and following paycheck. Now as a favorite former staff member, he was always guaranteed a discount seat. He'd stumbled upon her-almost literally-outside the back while taking an after-dinner smoke. She had been crying over something (Hannibal hadn't really listened that well, nor invited a list of her troubles, he had really just wanted a smoke) and he had served as a compassionate if rather unwilling sounding board for her hatred of men and her father.

Learning about her connections made the at-first horrifying prospect of accepting her number much more agreeable. She was not so dull as to be unbearable-her palette for food was well developed and mostly their dates consisted of his cooking for her, experimenting and honing his skill as she had no shortage of opinions on both a good or bad dish. If only she didn't talk so much during sex, the relationship might have developed into something more than just comfortable.

That being said, the comfort had carried them almost a year, and now he had been invited to come with her and stay with her parents for the holidays. Her mother did not like the idea of him, handsome and charming, not having at least some type of family to spend the holidays with. And when that family was known for their lavish black and white parties, who was he to refuse?

What did it matter if Abby was more than likely cheating on him with someone who wore the most atrocious cologne Hannibal had even smelt? He wanted a taste of the Reynolds' famed celebrations before saying his goodbyes to the relationship.

The closet door swung open, and a nurse sighed. "I found him," she called over her shoulder. "We've been looking for you! The hospital bigwigs brought champagne!"

Without asking she took his hand and tugged him out of the closet, back into the crush of bodies of the ER hallway. In the closet the rank stench of sweat, peppermint, sick and balsam had been considerably less, so he clapped a hand over his mouth and nose as he let himself be led to the break room. Indeed an impromptu party was set up over the rickety wooden table where an aged hand-me-down red tablecloth had been tossed in a half-effort of cheer. The hospital owners in their nice suits and thickly lacquered down hair were pulling bottles of domestic champagne from crates while nurses scurried about finding any spare cup they could.

While they were going on about some long spiel of appreciation and Christmas tides of joy, Hannibal thought for the sake of safety that he had better help in the uncorking unless he wanted a few more hours of overtime treating the various lost eyes their fumbling would produce. Four loud pops later, he was helping pour out the frothing liquid with one hand, taking sips of it from his own paper cup. It was cheap and over-sweet but the smell was cleansing his palette at least, masking the odor of the small room.

The conversation steered towards everyone's holiday plans. What were they cooking, who was coming into town and who was leaving for hearth and home? Many hoped Hannibal would stay, as he had a year or two, thrown a small dinner party for the nurses and other students who had no homes to return to-or no money in which to do it. Even on a paltry budget, he had been able to work wonders. "I'm afraid I will be spending Christmas with my girl," he said delicately, rubbing under his nose. What was that awful stench in here? "Her family invited me down to their estate for their celebrations."

"Your _girl_ ," one nurse snickered. "Haven't you been calling her that for almost a year?"

"Meeting the parents is rather serious," a doctor teased. "Dreaming of a white wedding rather than Christmas?"

"I've met them before," Hannibal demurred. "They visit often, and while they're very nice, I wouldn't be saving any dates quite so soon." Not that the Reynolds weren't of that opinion-they'd already laid down more than enough obvious hints that finally Abby had caught a young man they not only tolerated but liked. Frankly, it was clear they liked him more than their own daughter. Not that it was much of a horse race...

"Hannibal, marry? Hah!" A hand fell on Lecter's shoulder and the stench intensified. "He's got the makings of a _confirmed bachelor_ I think. A future of heading the opera boards and balls foot-loose and fancy-free, isn't that right, Han?"

Hannibal eyed the invasive hand and the man who it belonged to. After a moment of concentration, he recognized the loud voice. Dr. Seamus Lighton, a proctologist who was a skirt chaser that was always _so kind_ to offer tired nurses a ride home. Hannibal had heard that one of them had already caught another ride-straight to the maternity ward nine months after being escorted home by Lighton. After a moment, the younger doctor started-not because of the implications of his sexuality or this overly familiar touch-but standing next to the man he recognized the smell that had been bothering him since he entered the room.

The most repulsive cologne he'd ever smelled.

 _This_? This was the man Abigail canceled dinners and Sunday walks to be with? And it _was_ him-the scent was damning enough, but Abigail had been visiting him at the hospital more often lately, which had confused him ever since he deduced her unfaithfulness. From his too-small suit, his coffee yellowed teeth and wedding band, Hannibal was more dumbfounded than insulted.

He forced a smile to cover his surprise, and asked, "Perhaps. And you Seamus?"

"Don't know what I'm doing yet. Depends. But I bet you have some swanky party in-store, huh?" With another uninvited pat on the back, Lighton stepped away to intrude on some other circle of conversation. Hannibal drained his cup and checked his watch again. He'd forgo twenty minutes of pay just to leave here _now_.

He made his goodbyes and grabbed his coat, still off-kilter. He was glad that he had not slept with her since he suspected her infidelity. He was not the kind of man to judge a woman based on her virginity-he'd slept with too many unattached young women with no intention of marriage to be so hypocritical. But the idea of sleeping with Abigail after she had often been with _Seamas Lighton_ that her clothes began to reek of him, was off-putting, to say the least.

 _I'll make the best of the week,_ he decided, running to catch the end of the queue lining up for the last bus towards the residential area. _I'll enjoy the conversation and the party and discreetly tell her that I know and that I never want to see her again. Perhaps make a new friend while I'm there. She'll understand, she won't make a show in front of her parents._

That would be best. He'd let her know as soon as the first party was over, and offer to stay so they would save face and not become the object of gossip for the season. He lay his head against the cool glass of the bus, the sweat cooling on his forehead while he drowned out the off-key singing around him-a terrible half inebriated version of _We Wish You A Merry Christmas_ sung by workers already ready for the cheer of their families and warm meals at home.

Looking out at the dark street, he saw the first few flakes of snow dance in the cone of light from the passing street lights. It was always a toss-up whether or not they would have a white Christmas in Baltimore, unlike the Christmases he remembered so long ago. Lecter closed his eyes. Those memories-of long halls and ballrooms trimmed, trees covered in tinsel and family curled about a large fireplace while a mother knelt and stirred mulled wine over a fire that caught in her red eyes and on her white pearls-where tucked in a dark cellar of his mind that yawned wider and more dangerous every year. With a shake of his head, he slammed the door closed on his memory of the palace for now.

The Reynolds were supposed to have a rather extensive library. Instead of wandering through the shadows of his past, he would spend the week curled up with their books, perhaps he could convince Mr. Reynolds to take an afternoon and hunt on their large property, or slip into the kitchen and make a mental list of all the things he would like in his own kitchen one day. Yes, despite the current state of his romance, he could salvage his trip.

Three stops and Hannibal was home. The house he rented with his roommate Charles Finch, was in fact owned by the man's father. The young men met at the University, having shared a few advanced mathematics classes together. Hannibal was in need of a place to stay in town that was cheaper than his horrible studio flat, and Charles had no clue how to cook, so a friendship of necessity blossomed. Charles' father gave them a discounted price that served them both rather nicely. And for all their differences, Charles' career in the undiscovered country that was computer programming was more than fascinating-and when such machines became more commonplace as Mr. Finch swore they would-it would be good to have an acquaintance well versed in the technology. At least the conversation was never boring.

Opening the door to the refurbished victorian, however, Hannibal nearly fell face-first onto the carpet. Catching himself on the coat rack, he glanced around in slight horror at the disarray the front hall was. Crammed with chairs and the side tables from the living room, rugs rolled up and tossed on top as well as the dinner table disassembled, the leaves leaning against the wall. To add to the chaos, the record player was screaming out _Jingle Bell Rock_ at an ungodly volume.

"Charles," Hannibal called out, picked a precarious path through the furniture.

"You're early!" The blonde poked his shaggy head from out of the dining room, pushing his thick glasses up his nose. "Sorry, I was gonna have this all gone by the time you got home."

"And what is- _is all this_ ," Lecter asked, grunting the last as he shoved the dining room table out of his way. "Are you having a Christmas Eve yard sale? Hello Catherine."

Charles' girl who sported glasses just as thick, waved from her stop by the window where she was hanging garland. "Hello, Hannibal! I made punch-go have some in the kitchen. And butter cookies!"

"Don't worry, Hannibal. It's temporary I'm going to clean it up."

It wasn't even the mess, really. It was that the furniture shoved in the hall was _his_ , his table, chairs, and rugs. And-"Where's the piano?"

"Calm yourself, it's in the sunroom," Charles said, gesturing to the small room off the living room that was once a Victorian breakfast room and now a spare space utilized more by Catherine and her projects than, more the two bachelors. "I promise I was the most gentle with it, and everything. It's just been moved for a second-"

"Very carefully," Catherine assured.

"-And will be back in a few minutes. We just have to make enough room for everyone."

Hannibal blinked. "Everyone?"

"We're having a party!"

"You don't mind do you?" Charles combed back his blonde hair and returned to the Christmas tree, fiddling with the star he was trying to shove on top. "I mean you're still leaving tonight, right?"

"You're more than welcome to stay if you want," Catherine said, suddenly concerned for Hannibal's exclusion.

"He's driving to New York tonight," Charles snorted. "He's going to be dancing with billionaires and sipping orphan tears or whatever those types of people drink at those swank black and white parties."

"Oh, that'll be fun! Do you have a tux and everything?"

"Oh yeah-he looks like he's auditioning to replace Frankie Valli. I think the jacket's velvet."

Hannibal leaned against an upturned dining room chair and raised a brow. "I hope I've answered all your questions, Catherine."

She laughed and went to the kitchen to get him an early cup of punch and plate of cookies. "Here-I promise I will make sure there isn't a scuff on your furniture. I'll baby it myself and make sure it's covered."

Lecter favored her with a small smile. Catherine was officially _good people_ , and she and Charles were obviously a couple already starting on a seventy-year long relationship. Their engagement was already assumed. "Bless you, Cat."

He did trust them not to damage his things-and Hannibal was not himself the most neurotic about the housekeeping. But disarray and chaos did not sit well with him-even out of sight. Especially with the fact that they had wheeled his piano without him there to observe. It was a second hand upright, nothing terribly valuable-but still cost him a whole paycheck! Slipping into his bedroom, he drained the punch glass and took a bite into a biscuit-then schooled himself not to spit it out immediately.

Catherine might have been good people-but she was no baker. He swallowed anyway, and the taste coated his tongue and throat-not even filling his cup with water from the bathroom could wash it out despite his attempts to gargle and spit. He made a mental note to stop for coffee before he got onto the interstate.

He was halfway through packing when Charles called up the stairs, "Abby's here!"

A quick glance at his watch. She was early-good. He decided not to wait until they arrived at the estate-they needed to speak before starting off. He was fine with putting on a show for the sake of the weekend, but he would not be played for a fool. "Please, send her up Charles." _Seamus Lighton-I don't even want to know why not me. Why_ him _?_

He heard her before she bounded the corner. She was already in a festive red dress, her white lace peter pan collar peeking over her black fur coat. His eyes dropped immediately to her white tight clad legs-shapely in her chunky white heels. Happily, any desire he had for her had long been extinguished-a flame put out by disgusting cologne.

He invited her to sit on the end of his bed before closing the door. "I need to speak with you-"

"Wait." She reached out and wiggled her fingers. Hannibal hated being interrupted and hesitated before taking her hand. "Hannibal, you're such a swell guy. And this is really hard for me to say but-I'm not marrying you."

Well, he hadn't expected that. "I'm sorry?"

"No, _I'm_ sorry. I know you were looking forward to this, but I think it's best we don't go to my parent's together." She stood and smiled. "So you're off the hook! You don't have to drive for hours tonight, okay?"

"You're breaking up with me," Hannibal clarified.

"Well...well, yes," she said slowly as if he were the unintelligent one. "I mean, I thought that was implied."

He snatched his hand free from her 'comforting' touch. "You're fucking my co-worker, have been for a month, and _you_ are breaking up with _me_?"

Her jaw dropped-did she think she had been a paragon of secrecy? "I'm no-"

"That was how Lighton knew about the party." Hannibal never made his personal life known to anyone other than whom it concerned, and he was not yet of the means to be a common face at the gatherings of the Maryland elite. How else would Seamus know there would be elegant parties in his future. _Don't know what I'm doing yet. Depends._ "You're taking _Lighton_ with you."

Forgoing any charade of innocence, Abigail smoothed down her skirt. "Yes. I am. He and I are going to get married."

"He's _already_ married, Abby."

"He's leaving his wife. He told me-they're just staying together until the new year, for tax reasons-stop laughing at me, Hannibal!"

For the young doctor, shock had turned to humor. By the time she reprimanded him, he nearly had tears in his eyes from his chuckles. He groped blindly until he found his desk chair and dropped himself into it. "Abigail," he finally gasped. The situation was almost too ridiculous. "Abigail, I always knew you were about as smart as a parrot, but bringing a married man to your parent's Christmas? On top of that, you can't seriously believe he's going to leave his wife for you." For a girl born and raised in the upper echelon of society, she did not have any understanding of how these things worked.

She smoothed down her front again. "Yes I do-I'm having his baby, so he has no choice."

That successfully sobered him. "You're pregnant?"

She lifted her chin. "Yes. It works out perfectly. Seamus will have to leave his wife, and Daddy can't say no if he wants to protect our reputation."

Hannibal didn't even bother to point out that stealing a married man from his wife by having his bastard wouldn't reflect too well on the Reynolds' name. "You got pregnant on _purpose_?" But Lecter held up a hand before she answered. Despite the bitter taste of disappointment mingling with the awful butter cookie in his mouth, he had clear proof that with Abigail Reynolds, he had just dodged a bullet. Better to bow out of this melodrama in motion while he still could. "No, I've changed my mind. I don't want to know. I wash my hands of it, Abigail and I'd really rather you leave now."

Turning on her heel, Abigail flounced out of his room in what she, perhaps, thought was dignified silence. Lecter sunk back into his desk chair with a sigh. Now he was not sure what he was more disappointed about, not being there for the party or not being there to see the utter debacle Abigail and Lighton's presence would make.

Either way, he was abandoned for Christmas. No library, no hunting, no cozy Christmas for him.

Charles came up a little while later, not daring to cross the threshold. "So, not going to New York then?"

"No." Hannibal tucked the last of his shirts into his dresser and pushed the drawer closed with a finger. While free of an impulsive and rather stupid girl, having a totally barren schedule for the holidays wasn't sitting well with him. At best he'd be quarantined to the house and his books, as it was too late to get tickets or seats to any venue that was worth the effort.

"I take that it's...all over?"

As much as he appreciated his friend's tact, Hannibal cut through the niceties. He propped an elbow on the dresser and leaned his cheek against his fist. "If you're asking if I got dumped the day before Christmas Eve, the answer is yes." He rubbed between his brows. He could feel a headache coming on.

"I would say I'm sorry, but it was never a good match, you know."

Lecter spared his roommate a glare out of the corner of his eye. "Of course I knew. But it was convenient."

"Well, there should be plenty of nice girls at the party-Catherine invited half of her librarian class. You can tuck into the corner and talk about _Meditations_ all night with some cute skirt."

It took a little more prodding, and the threat of Catherine bringing up another plate of her cooking to 'comfort' him to finally pulled Hannibal downstairs to help prepare. Charles was correct there were several girls who arrived that were rather attractive and exceptionally smart, however, the conversation never deviated from up-coming weddings, past weddings, children or computers; all topics Hannibal either couldn't stomach or had nothing to add.

To escape the questions about his marital status ( _I know so one who would be perfect for you, you're a doctor and you aren't married yet how do you fend them off_ ), and his nonexistent plans to rectify it ( _you can't let those cheekbones go to waste, your children would be so handsome_ ), he pulled his piano out of the sunroom and sat down to replace the awful vinyl playing on the record player. It was slightly out of tune-a task he hadn't had time to complete, but no one seemed to mind the hymns slightly out of key.

Everyone, however, did notice when there was a ringing snap that created a disjointed chord of its own into a stunned silence and even made a bump in the wood right above the music stand of the instrument. Slowly rising, Hannibal confirmed his fear-inside the piano, he saw a wire, snapped and curled up laying atop the hammers.

"Oh sh-" Charles hurried over, a little unsteady on his feet from indulging in the punch. "Oh God-Hannibal I swear we were so careful! Can it be fixed?"

Closing the lid and the fallboard, Hannibal took a deep fortifying breath. "Yes, but not tonight. I'm going for a walk."

"Hannibal-"

He shook his head. His holiday plans were totally upended, his love life had taken an almost Shakspearean turn for the comical, and now even his piano had failed him. Instead of continuing to be beaten, he thought it best to fold and leave the table, considering the cards he'd been dealt. "I think it best if I am simply alone. Excuse me."

He lingered only long enough to make his polite goodbyes and grab his overcoat. He knew there would be no seat for him at the Four Seasons, even if he wanted to splurge-and his old workplace would be closed for the holidays. He hoped the best he could find was a quiet coffee shop, open for the displaced and lonely.

Fate, however, was as cold to him as she had been all day. It was late, and the shopping district of town was mostly abandoned, including any suitable place to grab a bite or a hot drink. Instead, like a moth, he was drawn to the overly bright buzzing sign of an all-hours diner. The bell's ding was intrusive as he slipped into the empty establishment, cupping his fingers over his panting mouth, trying to warm the digits through his gloves.

"Good evening," he choked out. He'd been wandering for hours now and chilled through. He just wanted to warm up, and wait for the next bus. "Could-"

"We don't have it." The waitress behind the counter tossed a menu before a bar stool and shrugged. Her once-white apron was stained, and her blue uniform dress wrinkled. She looked like Hannibal felt. "Just so you know."

"Excuse me?"

"We're out of almost everything."

"You're out…?"

She nodded, propping her fists on her hips. "Yeah, ain't it a kick in the head? My idiot boss didn't reckon anyone in Baltimore would be _lonely_ around _Christmas_ and didn't order enough for the demand. It's been one lonely soul after another. So whatever you want, I probably don't have."

"You're open, but you've run out of food?" Hannibal was a little dumbfounded by just how rotten his luck was. Still, he wasn't about to wander back out into the cold just now and still took a seat.

"Well, I have biscuits, and I can add gravy. That's about it."

"Biscuits and gravy? It's Maryland." He sighed, rattled by a sudden severe shiver that ran through him. "Coffee? I will take hot water, even."

"No coffee." The woman swept her steady grey eyes over him. "But...I have a teabag in my purse. No, keep your money." She waved a hand as he reached into his overcoat for his wallet. "You look like you need it."

"I couldn't...or, I could." Hannibal sighed. His gloved hand had been reaching in his overcoat pocket-then his suit jacket's breast pocket-and finally his back pocket only to discover his wallet was nowhere to be found. So much for busing home.

The waitress smirked as she took the kettle to the big industrial sink behind the counter, filling it. "Not the best day?"

"Not exactly."

"What is it, alone for the holiday? Or do you wish you were alone?"

"Both." He declined elaborating any further and instead opted for watching the few straggling cars pass by the wide window by the booths. A car, that was another purchase he needed to save up for. Hannibal amused himself by imagining the car he would choose, once his practice was successful and known, of course.

He was kicked out of his fantasy Bently while trying to decide if white leather or black was the best for the seats by the first sip of borrowed tea. Once again, his lips clamped down to quell the urge to spit. The tea was strong and herbal and combined with the taste of the failed butter cookie that still had not left him, it was a cacophony of flavor that he desperately wanted to eject. "Could I have the cream?"

The waitress only smirked.

"No cream? Not even milk?"

"I think there's some sugar left in one of these." She breezed through the swinging door next to the counter and went through every sugar container on the tables before bringing him one that had at least a teaspoon of sugar in it. Hannibal unscrewed the top and poured it all into his paper cup. It didn't help much, but he could swallow now. "Thank you. I'm sorry I have nothing to tip with."

"Don't think about it. Where are you going?"

Hannibal nodded to the window. "The snow is really coming now. And without the bus fare, I have a few hours of walking, and with the way my night is going I better head home now. Thank you again." He was going to head off as much bad luck as he could, and would not tempt the universe by even thinking _what else could happen_.

He held the cup close to his face, so that the steam wafted up, warming his nose over his scarf. The heat from the paper cup heated through his gloves, and though it was scant warmth, it was just enough.

As he made it to the edge of the residential area, crossing the street to pause before a church and adjust his scarf, he heard the screech of tires on cement. He moved away from the edge of the sidewalk-but was a second too late. With a shock and splash, the speeding vehicle passed by, kicking up a tall wave of water and dark slush. The slap of water shocked him, making him grip his cup too hard-hot tea splashed over his front, staining his coat and dribbling down onto his shoes. After a second of stunned silence, he looked down at himself, a mix of hot and cold and wet all the way through.

The street was silent, nothing but the church bells softly calling out the late hour beside him with almost mocking cheer. Trudging to the bench right before the graveyard gate, Hannibal seated himself on the chilly wood. He was alone, he was cold, he was wet, and he still had an hour's walk home.

And it was the night before Christmas Eve.

Heat pricked at the corners of his eyes. _I am going to sit here, and cry,_ he decided stoically. _Like a child, I am going to have myself a tantrum-I've earned it. I_ deserve _it._

"Here."

Sniffling-for at the moment, what did he care if a stranger saw him-he turned to face the owner of the soft voice. He hadn't noticed anyone sitting on the opposite side of the bench, their seat facing the graveyard rather than the street. An elegantly gloved hand was holding out a handkerchief. Its owner was a woman, her bright brown eyes glittered like gemstones over her scarf. From her warm knit hat wisps of white-blonde hair escaped, and though her ensemble covered most of her face, he could feel her smile.

"Thank you." He took it and hesitated. It wasn't much and certainly wouldn't dry his clothes. So he decided to mop off the water and tea splatter from his face rather than waste it blotting his shirtfront.

"You're welcome. Merry Christmas."

He could not contain his hateful scoff.

"Well, that sounded certainly un-festive. Not the best yuletide, then?"

"No, not the best."

"What's happened, if I may ask?"

"It's a long story."

"I adore long stories."

"I won't bother you with my troubles."

"It isn't a bother if I asked. Come on, you'll distract me. I'm having a rather bloody hard time of it myself." The woman shifted so that she was facing him over the backs of their benches. She lifted a white box off her lap. Sliding the bow off and lifted the wrapped lid, offering him five rows of neatly placed candied orange slices. "Here. Have one, and tell me what a young man like you is doing wandering around town all alone."

Hannibal eyed the fruit, his mouth salivating. Knowing his fate tonight, they'd probably taste like dried blood and cough syrup. But...he had put worse in this mouth-especially tonight. And the current flavors on his tongue could not possibly get worse. Sliding off a glove, he picked up a slice and bit into it. Sugar and citrus exploded over his tongue, and mixed with the coconut flakes that were sprinkled on top-heaven!

She chuckled, seeing him eye the rest with ravenous desperation. "Go ahead, have another. You look starved." She didn't need to offer twice.

"I am having an absolutely tragic night. I am not sure what I did to cause such offense, but I am certainly being punished."

"Forget to hold your breath?" She nodded to their silent companions beyond the gate.

"Not so much." He hesitated and took a third slice. "Perhaps He up there is teaching me not to dally with girls I have no intentions with."

"Ah, I see, you broke a young girl's heart, and getting splashed by a Ford is your comeuppance."

"Well, she left me. But that might have been the best part of my night." Hannibal took one last slice and began his tale of woe, starting from the hospital on. His pretty companion listened, mostly silently, quiet and reserved except when there was an opportunity for a quick quip. He even managed to make him laugh at himself more than once.

When he finished, she closed the candy box and summed up; "So that was the car that splashed the doctor that forgot his wallet an hour from his home where his piano broke in the house that the girl dumped him that Finch built."

By this time Hannibal had stretched out his legs, his head leaning back against the bench, staring up at the stars above him, or where he knew the stars were. The city lights drowned out the twinkling dots themselves. He handed her back her now dry handkerchief, chuckling. "Something like that."

"Well, it seems that the only direction you can go is up."

"I hope so. I'm already cold as hell."

"Makes sense-the last level of it _is_ ice. Like I said, now that Satan's chewed you up and spat you out, nowhere else but up. It's almost eleven, the day's almost done. I don't think anything worse can happen."

Hannibal sat up, his interest peaked in this good-humored woman. He handed her back her handkerchief, her fingers brushing his palm as she took it back. He repressed the urge to take her hand. "Thank you for listening. And for sharing your food."

"No one should be left with the taste of herbal tea. It's a punishment, not a comfort."

Lecter stood. Perhaps she was right, perhaps the night was salvageable. "Well then, Virgil, would you like to journey back with me? I'm going that way." He gestured up the lane, towards the cluster of homes where the lights were all turned off and the residence already a bed.

"Not yet," she said. "It's time for me to go."

On cue, the church bells behind rang out again. Hannibal turned towards it, now finding the chimes pleasantly domestic, and counted the rings. Eleven o'clock already? It was that late? "Then let me-"

But when he turned back, she was nowhere to be seen. The doctor turned in a full circle, searching for her beyond the light of the streetlamp. There was no way she could have walked that fast in the span of eleven rings-not without him hearing it. With a bit of a jolt, he wondered if he had imagined that entire conversation. If he had become so stressed from the cavalcade of inconveniences that he conjured up his very own companion to air his troubles to. But the taste of orange was too strong in his mouth to believe that-that he was so far gone.

He hoped.

He put a hand to his forehead and called out softly into the dark, but all that accompanied him was the sound of the wind, kicking up the fresh layer of snow that was already coating the ground. He hadn't wished her luck on whatever was giving her such a 'bloody time' of it.

Hannibal didn't even know her name to thank her. With another turn, just to make sure, Hannibal fixed his mostly dry scarf and started off home again. Just beyond midnight, Hannibal slipped into his dark home. In the ambient light from the windows, he saw that the dinner table and chairs had been returned to their proper place, with his rug beneath. The only traces of the party were the large plastic bags willed with the paper streamers and cups discarded after use.

In the kitchen, he began to strip down to his shirt and pants, placing his gloves and scarf on the radiator to dry and warm, his overcoat on top of a nearby chair. On the table, there was a note propped up against a plate of butter cookies. Lecter used his thumb and forefinger to lift it as if the flavor of the biscuits might infect him through touch alone. In Catherine's tight flowery hand was a small note of apology, encouraging him to have as many of the butter cookies as he so desired. Appreciating the sentiment, he wondered if he could dispose of the batch quietly without her finding them in the trash. He stepped out of his shoes, tucking them under the radiator as well, and sat stretching out his legs towards the heat.

 _Well, thank you,_ he mused sleepily. _Whoever you are. Thank you._

* * *

Late into the night, once the blood was cleaned up, and the ordeal was finally over, John was allowed into the room. Taking off his hat, he edged inside, peering through the low light to the bed. The nurses hadn't returned yet, giving the couple some time alone together, and also having an excuse to sneak into the break room and salvage the last of the Christmas treats. It was dark, and the small hospital quiet. His own whispered voice was loud in the silence.

"Shelby?"

On the bed, the woman moved, lifting her bright eyes to her husband. Tears already glistened on her cheeks, and her voice was thick when she whispered his name. He came close, perching on the edge of the bed. "Is she…?"

"She's asleep," Shelby assured. "And she's perfect John. Look."

Bending close, careful and oh so gentle, she transferred the bundle to his arms. John looked down and grinned wide, tears crowding his eyes. It had been worth the hours and hours of suffering through his wife's shouts of pain echoing into the sitting room, and hours of pay lost. Such a perfectly round face was worth it. "Aw, Shelby. Look at what you did. Look at her…"

Shelby gently reached out, her arms suddenly too empty without their new and precious burden. She took the baby's little hand in hers and ran her thumbs over the impossibly small fingernails. "I think you're right. She doesn't look much like a Beatrice."

John laughed, then choked on it as the baby stirred. He didn't want to wake her-not after the time they had just to bring her into the world. "No, she don't look nothing like a Beatrice." Leaning down he pressed his lips to her smooth little forehead and inhaled the sweet baby scent.

"Hello, Clarice."


	3. The Danse Macabre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, my group of Hannibal novel-lovers and I spend far, far too much time thinking of every possible scenario and exchange the good doctor and Clarice can have, and one AU brought up was a period drama. I had for a long time had something cooking in the back of my mind of taking the gothic romance themes already in place in the novel and turning it into a good old fashion Victorian Gothic Romance, how the story would be changed and the characters places in that time, all in good fun.
> 
> So here is the climax of the novel Hannibal, the Verger barn scene from such an AU just in time for ooky spooky season. 
> 
> Enjoy!

It was truly nothing like Clarice envisioned, her first ball. Firstly, she was not a young girl. Secondly, there was no bubbling anticipation welling in her belly popping and delightful like champagne. She was, however, in borrowed clothing-at least that she had predicted. She pulled the late Mrs. Crawford's cloak from her shoulders, handing to the random servant who reached for it. She ought to have felt bad, having pilfered the poor dead woman's trunk moments after hearing that Jack was in the good nurses' care for his heart. But there was a much more pressing matter to attend to.

Besides, she'd lived in Bella's shadow all her adult life. It was fitting somehow.

Clarice acted impatient when a guard inspected her invitation, as she had seen more than one fine lady do. She had poorly adjusted Jack's name on it in haste to Jaqueline, a truly uninspired move borne of haste and need. But the entrance hall was cloistered and hot and the servants ill-treated. They saw the Verger crest in its authenticity and nodded her along.

Also differing from her childhood dreams of splendor and gaiety, the actual ballroom was disgustingly hot, the press of bodies reminding her of farm animals herded in for the slaughter-and wasn't it just so?

This elaborate party was a trap, just as much a trap as the fake love trinkets tucked into her trunk in her flat, a trap like Jack's first attempt to raise her from the station in which she had been born. And they all had one prey in mind-not her, the too-clever American girl trying desperately to wedge herself into respectable London society. But one Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

And he was here. She knew it-he would not resist such a joke. To sneak into Mason Verger's annual Christmas masquerade, drink his wine, and enjoy mocking his tasteless gold trappings whilst the master lounged in his moving chair, paralyzed and ugly, hidden by a curtain.

Through her own feathered mask, pinned so tightly to her temples it ached, she saw his form up on the balcony. The bastard, sitting behind a thin veil. She also saw the matronly silhouette of Judy behind him, his eternal servant. His sister Margot stood at the edge, nodding her head to whoever caught her eye so far above the crowd, welcoming them to her brother's home. She was severe in her black gown, high collared and trimmed in lace, her face maskless and white-blonde hair in its pristine chignon high on her head. One hand rested claw-like on the banister, fingernails tapping impatiently. She reminded Clarice of a sleek corvid, deceptively intelligent, and the symbol of oncoming doom.

Even though she knew Margot was the daughter of a low noble, and Clarice was simply a child of a Texan lawman, a dead cowboy, the former nurse could not help but compare herself with the woman. Always comparing.

Though it was not much of a contest, Clarice's silks were old, and really from the presentation gown her cousin's wife had made for her, back in the time when they thought they had gained a little girl from 'the colonies' to raise into a lady to hand London's _ton_ and perhaps a man with fortune. They had been mistaken, and the dress had sat unused in her trunk for years. When she and Ardelia graduated, they had pooled their money and tore apart the old fashioned gowns their respective families had given them for scraps and had proper gowns made up in starry-eyed hope that their new titles would give them a position in society, Clarice for the hospital, Ardelia to secretary for a barrister.

Now Clarice felt stupid in her dark maroon silk, so obviously stitched from a fashion plate with thread made in a factory. But she blended well enough, which is all she asked for this evening.

Was Margot searching as Clarice was searching? Then the hunt was on, and Clarice was going to win against the little princess. She had to.

For there was another purpose to this gala. Mason had not simply bought music and performers for entertainment. No, he planned to use the good doctor as a bear in his own personal fight.

When she had been sent packing from the hospital, shamed and primed for the constable to come knocking at her door to take her to the jailhouse, she had been followed. Mr. Brigham, bless his soul, had taught her how to divine these things. One of the same turn was a coincidence, three or more was a tail. He had used her for such things, taught her to take side streets to remain undetected, back in the days when she had hoped to become an assistant to the detectives, though Mr. Crawford had never shown a sign of actually helping her. Oh, he had secured her a kindly landlord when she first graduated nursing school and often sent her on interesting errands (though none as interesting as the first), but never truly brought her under his wing. Never even so gallant as to offer for her hand, as Mr. Brigham had, though the familiarity in which he spoke down to her would have been an indication of a future proposal to most women.

And Clarice knew how to doublecross a tail. Dr. Lecter, damn his lily-white hide, had given her such a tip as well as other interesting things during their talks in the asylum. He, as poised and patient as a gentleman in his ragged clothes, sitting in his bolted down desk and chair, a heavy chain about his ankle. Clarice had slipped through several crowded stores until her pursuers were confused about which wool-clad brunette was their quarry, and doubled back, sneaking upon them in a deserted alley. She was glad then she had never spent the pounds for heeled boots that surely would have made a sound.

Her followers were brutish men, stinking, and rough. Professional kidnappers, she recognized. Sometimes the police used them to capture the more elusive thieves and petty criminals. They had talked of her, but moreover what her use was. To lure out the doctor. They spat whenever his name was mentioned (and when it was not) and talked with glee about the tortures waiting for him at Mason's hands for the elite guests at the ball-and if they used boxes and peepholes through the wall, did they think they could catch a glimpse?

Tortured like an animal-less than an animal. Even animals deserved clean deaths. It was not the killing that rankled Starling, however. She'd seen enough duels allowed by her father and the sheriff. He had a grievance, he should be allowed to see the man who harmed him dead, no matter how disgusting Mason was. But torture-and the kind her would-be kidnappers had described had turned her stomach. There was no honor in it. She had almost been sick when she returned home.

Instead, she had turned resolute. Clarice did not know exactly what she was going to do when she found him, but despite his supposed insanity, Lecter was at least intelligent. Could be reasoned with; bargained with. And Clarice had an ace in her reticule-her father's LeMat. That should at least be reason enough if she needed to resort to it.

If she ever did. The ballroom, massive as it was, was a crushed ring around an almost as crushed dancefloor. The dancers weaved in and around each other, probably glad for the little wind there was when they moved to help from the stinking heat. Candles were stuffed everywhere to give light and only managed to heat the place more. Was not Mason rich enough to begin installing electricity? But it was better for her, Clarice acknowledged, even as she despaired of moving, let alone searching.

Dr. Lecter's eyes had been almost brown in the stark sickly electrical light of the asylum. But when Lady Martin had swung her weight and tried to have him moved to Scotland, the room in which they kept him only had candles. That, more than her confession, had stuck with her from that last meeting. The burning flames, hot as hell, had danced across his skin and hair but were entirely lost in his claret eyes. They had flickered and danced like the flames, but never brightly, never shone. And in this ball of fake faces, eyes were all she had to go on.

Clarice elbowed her way through the crowds, first to the punch table, and then to the gardens with no luck. Oh, she found plenty of drunken men about, trying to capture her hand, and introduce themselves for a dance of one kind or another, whether in the ballroom or in the dirt of the flower beds. She had deliberately dug her heel into the foot of a few who, when 'admiring' the flowers stitched into her collar, brushed her bare shoulders.

She found a place to breathe against the wall, sweating, head reeling from lack of oxygen, and already tired. Clarice tugged her white gloves higher on her upper arms and fortified herself. Even if the sun rose, she would not stop until Lecter was found and saved from his gruesome fate.

Back into the fray went she, already lashing out with an elbow to a man who took her waist from behind, missing his side by a hair's breadth.

"Ah-careful now."

Her stomach lurched, but before she could gasp, or even register what was happening, the man beside her bent and picked up the end of her dress' train, placing the loop over her hand, and led her onto the floor.

Dr. Lecter spun her to face him, and with one hand respectfully at her back, the other gently grasped her fingers and led her into the swirling tide of bodies that lapped in time to the orchestra. And his eyes indeed danced as well in the candlelight.

Her feet dumbly moved in time, more instinct than actual motion, born of all those lessons from books, and practiced secretly in her bedchamber. Her mind, however, was fixed on the man before her. Though not tall, still a head above her, all she could see of the face she remembered so well was the sleek, strong jaw, now clean-shaven, and the slightly straight nose. She had wanted, in their discussions, to ask how and who broke it once upon a time. But it had been too informal a question, and would give evidence that she had been starring at his face for pleasure rather than a necessity, something she only did in her memory rather than at the time-and rather guiltily at that. He wore a black domino mask, and a lovely suit of black silk, neither flashy nor drab. Simply finely made and sleek.

"For shame, Clarice, you have stolen my role."

"What," she asked dumbly.

His eyes narrowed in censure but continued, "I am the bird they seek to hunt, you are the thief, ready to steal their prey. We have on each other's costumes." He nodded to the feathers adorning her mask.

"Doctor, you know you're in danger and yet..." Clarice swallowed and glanced up at the balcony. Margot was no longer looking at the crowd but had her head turned to Barnabas, her own suspiciously new servant. Starling's eyes narrowed. Traitor.

"Oh, do not feel unkindly towards our friend. He has neither your looks nor your pedigree to move him ahead in society. And yes, to him even your paltry list of relatives in respectable places is better. Surely Miss Mapp has informed you of such?"

"I didn't come to discuss the machinations of London's society," she hissed. "We have to move towards the garden or somewhere we can sneak-"

"Sneak? In the middle of a ball? Alone, the two of us?" He grinned as red infused her neck-not a maidenly blush but a flush of rage at his flippant attitude. "You've been indulging in Miss Radcliffe's works, I think."

Clarice had a great desire to stamp on his foot but controlled it. "This isn't a game! Or a joke! They mean to kill you, and not cleanly." Perhaps sensing her intent to trample his shoes he spun her to the swell of music. When they had resumed the proper hold, it did not escape her that she was closer to him now. Close enough to smell the leather, smoke, and orange blossom off his jacket, no doubt from the garden where he had watched her move "Doctor, please, believe me, men like him do not like to have what they want slip through their fingers! I know!"

"Men like Cheif Inspector Krendler, I presume? Oh yes, I have followed with great interest his hand in your public disgrace. Shameful. Not of you, of course. Do not mistake my meaning."

"I've never mistaken you, doctor," Clarice stated.

"I know," was his reply, now suddenly without artifice or humor. "Perhaps you are right."

As quickly as he had swept her on, they exited the dance floor smoothly. He led her through the sandbar of bodies that encased the dancers and led her to a wall with a fresco of a farmer herding sheep and pigs. Pressing a place on the wall, a sliver swung open revealing a servant's passage.

Clarice was pulled in, and the light and noise of the ball were shut out, muffled by the wall. She backed up, trying to give herself room, trying to see in the sudden darkness. There was a place on the wall, the farmer's eyes, that was merely painted paper-a place for a servant to see through to decipher if anyone was standing before the door as they exited. The peephole only gave her slants of light to work with as she found her footing and the wall to lean against.

Dr. Lecter had removed his mask and tossed it somewhere. He now held her reticule, which Clarice only then realized had been slipped off her hand. Pulling out the revolver, Lecter smirked. "Never a dull evening with the Lady Starling. Was this silver meant for me or a monster more grotesque?"

"It depended."

"On?"

"Who was more disagreeable at the given moment."

Lecter tucked the gun back in her bag. "And this one?"

"I haven't decided yet." How easy was it to settle back into the cadence of conversation with him! They hadn't stopped dancing, after all, even these years later. "Doctor, please. I have a carriage outside. It's well hidden in a grove just down the lane from the house. They won't notice two guests leaving."

"You've planned this all out? How did you come by his plans?"

"I heard talk."

"Ah, you were tailed as well." He stepped closer to her, and gently pulled the hairpins that kept her mask in place. The cool air of the passage was a blessing on her damp face.

"Yes, now doctor please-"

"Seeing as you are here and not in some awful dungeon, my advice proved helpful?"

"...Yes."

"Though you did not heed my warning of Mr. Crawford, what of my instructions in my letter? After that horrible hostage incident with the prostitute Madam and the child?"

Clarice closed her eyes and saw again the old skillet he had told her to look into. "Yes. Yes, I always remember your advice, where ever I go. Does that please you?" He would never do anything without a pound of flesh-literally or not. Confession out in the open, she continued. "Will you now heed _my_ advice and leave before they find us?"

She opened her eyes again and saw him gently bite his gloved finger, sliding his hand out of the encasing material. Tucking the kid leather away, she watched half agony, half hope, as his fingers moved towards her, hovering over her cheek and jaw.

Clarice had always thought Dr. Lecter cold, remote, and apart, despite the fire of his words. He was always so in control, so calm. And when their hands had touched that once, he indeed, had been cold from the Scottish winter crawling into his prison.

But now...now as fingertips brushed a tiny whisp of a lock from her temple, his fingers burned. She gasped from it when his warm palm dwarfed her cheek and held. He had held her as they danced and that had, technically, been an embrace. But this, this was _truly_ a touch.

"Are you afraid of me," he murmured, closer now.

"No." Her voice was barely a whisper, hardly audible over the loping violins and lilting brass beyond the wall.

"Are you afraid of yourself?"

Did he mean what she was willing to do? Shoot and harm as a nurse sworn to heal? Steal a dead woman's clothes and lie to accomplish her goal? Or did he mean the emotion welling in her breast, and how keenly she noted the warmth radiating from his body so close to hers? In the end, it mattered very little. "No."

"But you are trembling."

"I can't let them hurt you."

He chuckled, his breath dancing across her face. "Am I too, a lamb? Careful Clarice-" how he dragged out the syllables of her name "-For my teeth are not only for grazing." He bent his head, and Clarice was sure she'd feel those very teeth graze across her throat-and she knew though it may stop her heart, it was not for fatal intent. But instead, he merely inhaled the scent, the dab of perfume she placed behind her ear every day.

His hand trailed down, lightly grasping her throat, his thumb brushing over her jugular. Clarice shivered when that same hand swept her hair off her shoulder, resting against her collar bone like a brand.

And then he was gone from her. Her hand was suddenly heavy with her bag again, and Dr. Lecter was leaning against the opposite wall. "You're right. His joke was a poor one, and this game is not at all as fun as I imagined. You've spoiled it all, my lady, with your superior charm."

He pulled his glove back on. "Seeing as we weren't invited in the first place, best to leave the same way we came: sneaking." He started down the hall, away from the ball. Pausing when she did not move, still rooted to her spot and un-kissed, he extended a hand.

"Come. Come with me."

She knew there was more in that than a command to follow. For a second she made to turn, to glance back at the servant's door.

"Don't do that," he chided, a smirk gracing his mouth again. "You'll turn to salt."

Clarice sucked in a breath. She hesitated a moment longer, but finally slipped her fingers into his. Lecter held fast and lifted them to his lips, pressing a kiss there through her glove. And then another to her palm, firm and warm, inhaling her scent, again to her wrist and slightly above until she was standing close to him again. She had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye as he raised his head. But his forehead simply rested against hers. "There isn't time," he said, more to himself she guessed, than for her edification. Time for what? A kiss, or what a kiss would lead to?

Again she surprised herself with the ease her thoughts led given more than sufficient evidence. It had always been a rumor about her, why the famed insane doctor would speak to a poor, pretty nursing apprentice and no one else. And nothing in their discussions had been explicitly about the connection between them. It was a thing felt, more understood than acknowledged.

But he was right. There wasn't time. "We must go," she reminded.

He nodded, and with another kiss to her knuckles, led her down the passageway. It wound and turned, but never went down, as a normal servant's hall might do. Instead, it seemed to branch off at several intervals, with staircases up and down that led nowhere, as well as too many doors to count. Lecter carried with him a pocket lighter that gave them illumination as they navigated the maze.

Clarice almost wished, however, that they moved in darkness. Room after room of torture devices, tables with chains attached, and walls hung with bizarre instruments, their uses mysterious but sinister. Some were empty, but the wood was darkly stained. Worse, however, were the chambers with mattresses lain in the corners, no chains but no windows either. These rooms had no knob on the inside but had sliding peepholes cut into the wooden doors.

There was one room Lecter peered into and immediately pulled her away, simply stating, "Do not look." She trusted him, and for the rest of her life, would remain ignorant of what laid in that room to make the monster recoil.

Finally, through the maze, they stumbled upon passageways that led to the real rooms of the manor. Sitting rooms, music rooms, even a small library. They flitted in and out of these chambers, continually attempting to find an exit. Some rooms were filled with amorous party goers. Others filled with men neither dressed for nor been invited to, a ball. Men like the kidnappers. These rooms they quietly backed away from, needing to find an alternate route.

"You would know better than I," Lecter said at one point as they traversed a particularly long hall, "But do you get the feeling of being corralled?"

"You think the exits are being blocked? They know?"

"Clarice, they knew we would be here before the first servant swept the floor this morning," he pointed out. "But yes. That they know we are on the move."

Just as he spoke the thought aloud, the hall ended in one final door. Snapping his lighter shut, Lecter tucked it back into his pocket and opened it. Air! Fresh air flooded the dark hall. Clarice could smell hay and wood and the night beyond. "Then we should-"

With a hissing buzz, she was blinded by bright electrical light. She felt Lecter's arm around her waist, pulling her against his side as his other hand shielded his own face. They blinked into the sudden light and saw that they had burst out into the barn house. But it was empty, save for the hay, and a pillory standing ominously in the middle.

"Ah! At last!"

Blinking, Clarice peered up into the loft. Eyes adjusting, she now saw into the shadows that the loft itself had been converted into some sort of balcony. Velvet cushioned chairs were placed in a semi-circle and filled with finely dressed gentlemen, already in their cups. A few were already guffawing, their glasses sloshing over, dripping from the loft onto the hay below.

And in the middle, Mason, in his hideous glory, his sister as ever by his side.

"Lady Verger," Hannibal greeted, ignoring the rest.

"Doctor Lecter," Margot replied, inclining her head.

"You are well."

"And you, and your lady. Miss Starling."

"Lady Verger," Clarice murmured. She was not trembling now, no, for she saw to Mason's right Cheif Inspector Krendler, turning off the oil lamp they had used for illumination while waiting. She would never quiver under his gaze. Instead, she felt her blood boil, her face flush with exhilaration. A showdown, then, she knew how to handle these better than a ballroom. But this wasn't Tombstone, and her name had no western glory behind it.

"I feared you had gotten lost, Doctor Lecter," Mason cut in. "Or, lost track of time. Rather cozy in those halls, is it not? You were free to use one of the rooms for your private escapades. Not as romantic, but gets the job done."

"Maybe he did, and was just quick about it," Krendler laughed.

Dr. Lecter did not dignify them with a reply, but neither did he remove his hand from Clarice's waist. Behind his back, she was able to shake loose her reticule and grasped the revolver. The velvet of the bag masked the click of the hammer.

"But now that you've had your fun, doctor, it is now our turn."

Clarice heard the barn doors open and knew that the thugs they had seen herding them through the halls were standing guard at the exits.

"I'm afraid Mason, you'll get no satisfaction from me. As usual, I decline your offer of 'fun'." He gave a courtly bow.

"I do not think so doctor, especially not when you've brought a playmate. Well, if you didn't have her in the hall like a normal gentleman, I don't mind giving you a little more time before you die."

Clarice's heart beat faster, but not with fear. They were about to make their move, and she needed to be on guard for an opportunity. The suggestion itself was, vulgar, but rather predictable. Of course, men like those staring down at her did not know what to do with a woman except poke.

"Again, I decline."

"It wasn't an offer."

As Mason spoke, Krenlder stood and lazily pulling his own weapon from his holster under his jacket. He leveled it at Clarice's head. "Come now. We're all here for a show. I for one would like to see what good ole Jack has been keeping to himself."

Clarice stepped forward, eyes not on the muzzle of the gun, but starring directly at Krendler. Her own was hidden in the folds of her skirt. "You know that Mr. Crawford and I were nothing to each other, Paul."

"Paul, am I? Now, Miss Starling, not so cold are you? Let's not dawdle. The doctor here can help you with your laces."

"I do not have to see this," Margot said. She signaled to Judy, who lifted her skirts and started down the stairs. The lady followed her lover, but her brother snapped,

"Oh, yes you do. Stay."

Halfway down the stairs, Margot paused. Dr. Lecter's attention was still on her. "It's not too late," he told her softly. "All it takes is someone who can copy write well."

Clarice and Krendler continued their staredown, ignoring all around them. "Why, Paul. Why do you hate me so? Because sussed out Bill before you? All it took was asking, but all of you were too proud to get your shoes a little dirty and walk into the asylum yourself!"

"And you? Seems you've more than spoiled shoes now, my girl."

"I'm _not_ your girl," Clarice snapped. "I'm not your anything, and that is what burns you, is it not? That I told you to crawl into your wife's bed instead of pawing at mine?!"

Krendler cocked the gun. "Do you think I won't shoot a little slag like you? No one will miss you, Starling, can't you see? You're only recourse is the poor house or the whore house and I can see you never make even to there."

"That depends."

"Oh? On what?"

"Who is the quicker draw."

Two flashes of light and Clarice jerked backward, a spray of red haloing her head. A third flash as Clarice's bullet flew true, and the oil lamp exploded in tongues of fire. The wine bottles littering the floor at the elite audience's feet shattered from the sprays of glass, and the fire was quick to drink up the spilled liquor. Within a moment the loft was ablaze.

Margot still on the stairs hesitated only a moment. "Run," she screamed to the thugs in the barn's doorways. "Go, now!" Hiking up her skirts she ran towards the mansion, all the while shrieking "Fire! _Fire_!"

Above them, the screams of burning men as the fire yawned and stretched its fingers to the roof and walls. Mason, abandoned and trapped in his chair, his good arm flailing as he shouted, throat full of smoke and blood. Krendler, slapping at his legs where the flame crawled up, tripped over the banister, and fell onto the hay below, flailing and burning.

Lecter knelt and grabbed Clarice's fallen revolver. Lifting her into his arms, he ran, circling around the burning barn towards the darkened forest. He stopped only a moment, to ascertain Clarice's wound. Her head was intact, but her temple was bloody. A graze, then, and he was never more grateful for Krenlder's poor aim.

Chaos was in full swing as the party-goers finally heard Margot's shouts of danger. They flooded out from the mansion like blood from a gaping suck wound, running to carriages and horses, heedless of order or servants. No one would miss a horse from stables in the chaos.

Lecter swung onto a particularly powerful looking stallion, Clarice in his arms. He had used his gloves as padding, her own as makeshift bandages to hold them there in an attempt to stop the bleeding. They had to ride hard and fast if he was going to make it to a safe house to properly treat the wound. And from there, a few more days to his manor near Gretna Green.


	4. The Danse Macabre 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Well, this idea just wouldn't leave my head so I ended up writing about 60+ more pages of this AU. It's a little longer than this vignette collection is supposed to be, so after this, I will be publishing this AU separately, under its own header as The Danse Macabre!
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this next installment!
> 
> ~Donttouchthefigs

Clarice slipped in and out of time. She knew danger was near for a moment, eyes fluttering, and throbbing pain knocking against her temple. A hand pressed something cool to the pounding and eased it slightly before the world was black again. Another time she knew danger was passed...and yet not passed. She heard a familiar voice but could not place it, simply obeyed as the rim of a cup was put to her mouth, and drank. She coughed and sputtered, the awful taste of laudanum mixed into tea made her gag. The voice commanded, gentle but firm that she drink. Clarice choked down as much as she could before falling back onto a soft pillow and sleeping. The next few times she awoke (twice to the sunrise, once in the middle of the night) she was at least relatively pain-free.

When she finally broke the surface of consciousness, she woke to the rocking of a moving carriage. She heard the clatter of horse hooves move from cobbled stone to dry pack dirt, and the carriage wheels trundle over the divide soon after. Her eyes felt heavy, but with some effort, her lids lifted. Her first sight was her own hands encased in new gloves, laying in her lap of green velvet.

She didn't own black leather gloves or green velvet.

She pressed her fingers to her face, trying to rub away the sleep, only for her fingers to brush the silk tie of a hat, bowed tightly under her chin. She took up one of the tails, peering at it. Black silk…

_I don't own any hats with ribbons…_

Sitting up, she caught her reflection and froze. That was her face, to be sure, and her hair simply pulled up in a bun. But the fashionably tilted hat of green felt and white silk flowers was certainly not hers! Nor the grey coat with its puffed sleeves and black lace applique up the front to mask the buttons. Where on earth had these clothes come from?

Before she could begin to truly panic, a voice called her attention. "Good afternoon. I see the laudanum has finally worn off. Forgive me, but it was a last resort. You were in so much pain."

Clarice turned-and immediately regretted the speed in which she did. Clutching her head, she waited for the world to cease spinning before focusing on the man sharing her ride.

Dr. Lecter sat across from her, legs crossed, looking very fine in his black greatcoat. He marked his page in his book and set it aside, giving her his full attention.

Clarice murmured, coughing on the dryness of her words, "the ball…"

From a pocket, Lecter pulled out a flask and opened it, handing it to her. "Simply water, I assure you. We are well passed the ball, my dear, and your birthday as well I am sorry to say. It is-" he consulted his pocket watch-"one o'clock on December the twenty-seventh."

"What happened?"

"You rather courageously infiltrated Verger's ball in an attempt to spare me a rather indecent death. Do you remember?"

Clarice rubbed her forehead again and thought back. She remembered being followed...and yes, Verger's plans. Remembered sitting in her flat, bare and empty and now messy from when the inspectors ripped it apart for the planted clues. Remembered burning with the injustice and horror of it, indignation, and the _wrongness_ of torture. The wrongness of digging through Bella Crawford's things. The ball and the sweltering rooms. The cool servant's hall and warm hands holding her own. The bright light of the barn, Krendler's twisting, sneering face and then-

"I was shot," she murmured, taking another long draft of water.

"Yes. Luckily for us, Chief Inspector Krendler is as bad a shot as he is an officer. He grazed your temple."

"The barn?"

"All gone, happily enough. Your aim was true, you see. Very clever, girl, exploding the oil lamp. Set the whole place ablaze."

"I was cold." The quip was out of her mouth before her sluggish good sense rose to stall it. The doctor however laughed. The sound arrested her-she'd never heard him laugh before. Chuckle, of course, but not the full-throated pleased sound he made now.

"Indeed. You very much save us, Miss Starling. I owe you my thanks."

The girl smiled slightly in return. She had done it. She had saved him from his awful death. In reality, in the back of her mind the whole time she couldn't foresee exactly how she would accomplish her goal-only that she had to try. Some part of her believed, most ardently, that she would fail or die trying. It hadn't mattered then. Well, neither outcome had occurred and here she was.

What now?

"And I owe you mine. A blow to the head can be fatal."

"It very nearly was. I despaired of you ever waking up, and when you did you were in agony."

"Then how…?"

"I took you to a safe place-a small cottage I keep for travel and safekeeping. I treated you there with the supplies I had. In the end, it was mostly about stemming the bleeding."

"Is that where we are traveling from?" Clarice leaned forward and peered out the carriage window. She saw rolling green hills and trees, and a horse trotting alongside, its rider in a chauffeur's uniform.

"No. I was not sure if we were tailed in all the chaos the fire caused. When you were stable enough we traveled to _The Silver Swan_ so I could gather some necessary things in town. We left there this morning."

" _The Silver Swan_?" Clarice's eyes widened. She knew a few of the girls at that hotel. Had spoken to them in coffee shops and along the street on her way to work. Surely at least one of them had seen her, carried in by a strange man. A strange man straight into a hotel room! Alone! Starling's throat closed and she regarded herself again. Her clothes were different. Freshly washed too, and she certainly hadn't packed a bag when she took off in her shabby ball gown on a borrowed wagon to the Verger Mansion.

Her reputation, whatever it was, what ashes now. As much ashes as Mason's horrid barn. What was she to do? She was not socialite able to spin a dalliance into an anecdote. She was a nurse-not even that now. A dismissed nurse was some little fame, and more than enough rumors swirling about to pull her under the tide of societal suspicion. She had not known what she was going to do the morning of the ball-things had happened in such quick succession, the planted evidence in her trunk, the search, the following, and the decision to go save the doctor all in the span of one day-that her future had merely been the next moment. The next choice to make, not the many years of her life stretching before her.

There were very few roads left to her, and the only viable one was some kind of marriage-the one thing she had hoped to keep to herself. Though her chances had always been slim, rejecting Mr. Brigham when she was already on her way to being an old maid, it was the only logical choice. After all, who would want a nanny or lady's companion who'd been an asylum nurse, an Inspector's go-for, and murderess of a serial killer?

And now…

 _Your reputation? Ha! What about you? What need you a reputation if you're not even free._ Clarice glanced back at the doctor. He sat, still fully focused on her, neither worried nor glib. Merely that serene calm that the best physicians carried.

She was no blushing shy flower-having been raised in a dirty Texan territory, then a cramped orphanage and finally living in a tiny London flat she knew the particulars-even seen them performed once or twice while passing a door or dirty alley while running errands for Mr. Crawford, gathering clues he could not. And there had been the odd stable boy in her youth, a beau here and there that had pawed with a little too much familiarity.

But she wasn't a fool. Despite the absurdity of boiling her worth down to her body rather than her brain, she knew to keep some things intact. It was obvious Lecter had dressed her, yet while her muscles ached, and her head still swam, she seemed unmolested. There was no pain in sitting or moving.

Was he simply waiting for her to be awake before claiming his own 'thank you'? Was she not even going to be allowed the dignity of fighting for her life with the monster, instead to be kept as his pet?

Absurdly, even as she thought it, shame kicked at her ribs. That she should feel shame in merely thinking ill of an escaped convict was absurd, but here it was.

He had never made any undo overtures. Oh, he had been a shameless flirt in the asylum at times to throw her off-kilter, and more often than not his flirt was merely a tip cover on whatever rapier he thrust into her ego. But when they had become partners of a sort, that had ended. He had become a mentor, asking more of her than anyone had-he had asked for her honesty and for her to think- _really_ think rather than going through the paces merely to stop at an acceptable answer written in a book. He had forced her mind to work again when so many taught her to keep it hidden.

Beyond that, there had been nothing inappropriate in their dealings, not even in his two letters to her. Clarice had found no such manners among the police and inspectors. Hannibal Lecter had only ever told her the truth, even truths it had taken years to see. He'd only ever been polite.

"Where are we going," she asked plainly and knew she would get a plain answer. If he meant her for a mistress he would make no game of it. When he wished something of her, Lecter had always asked outright, never wrapping it in a cyanide compliment or interesting errand.

"To Gretna Green." The doctor folded his hands over his knee and let her take that in. Perhaps he knew where her mind had tended. "We are almost there. We will stop to rest, and have an early supper. From there I have a manor in the next village over."

She repeated the name slowly, a little stunned. Clarice...well she really wasn't sure what she had expected. The obvious answer was a place to romp and then escape as fast as possible. Perhaps even skip the romp all together and head straight for a boat under concealed names where he could resume his stolen freedom, perhaps keep her as a safety net. After all, it was only through _her_ work of pouring over shopping lists and store ledgers that had gotten them anywhere near finding him in London when he returned from Italy. Keeping such a keen hound fixed on his sent close by was the greatest safeguard.

But Gretna Green was a town neither near the sea nor big enough to conceal someone wishing to disappear. It was meant for only one thing. The memory passed before her eyes like a figure outside a curtained window: _the shadowy image of him in his ball clothes, standing in the servant's hall, gloved hand extended. Come. Come with me._

"Why that place in particular? What does it matter? Your name in society is no longer your own." _Why go through the motions?_

The doctor inclined his head. "Of course. But I'm afraid association with me has taken everything from you, except your name. I thought you might like to keep it. Any other place, buying the license would require false papers and take time, and I'm afraid we've little enough of that. Winter is already underway and the roads will be intolerable soon."

Clarice put it more plainly, attempting to keep the incredulity from her voice. "You mean to marry me outright. Properly, or as proper as you can."

"I do." The doctor lifted his chin. He hardly ever held his head upright, always regarding the world with tilted curiosity or lax boredom. But now he looked at her head-on. "I would not ask you to come with me as anything else than my wife. I'll admit our courtship had been of a peculiar nature, but none can match the longevity. Seven years."

"You call our discussions a courtship? Sending me into a warehouse to find a severed head was a token?"

"Did you not like it?"

She had. She'd loved it because it had made her important. She had figured out his clues and gotten a vital piece of evidence. She had helped. It had raised her importance in the world from mere nurse to...well, Clarice didn't know what. But he had been right. She'd loved his gift of advancement. "Is that why you spoke to me?"

Now the doctor sighed, looking away from her. His disappointment in that simple action was as palpable as a hand slammed against the wall. "I've answered that question already."

" _Do you think I like to look at you, Miss Starling, and imagine how you would taste?"_

" _I don't know, sir. Do you?"_

" _No."_

Clarice however, wasn't a girl of twenty anymore. She did not back away: "You yourself called it part of our courtship."

"Both ideas can be held at the same time. Just as I can treat you as a doctor when I need, blind to all I see, yet see you now as a man to his intended."

They rode on in silence for a long time after that, Clarice attempting to reconcile it in her head. When the carriage stopped, she believed she understood in some part. She had some experience in it herself: She had treated John Brigham's wounds more often than not-a stab to the stomach or thigh needed certain areas uncovered to be treated. She had been efficient and clinical, seeing his body without it being handsome winsome John Brigham's body. It was merely a thing of flesh and muscle to be treated, sewn, and cleaned as she had been taught. Even after, she had not reflected on what she had seen in those moments with carnal interest, despite her attraction to him. They were locked away in her brain, the same way the dissected cats were from their friendly living counterparts.

Their work together had been real. Lecter had treated her as an equal and demanded she match his wit and understanding. And separate from that had been their attraction. She ought to name it now what it was, despite the scorn and rumors of lesser men.

Attraction. She had felt it in their first touch, and in their second moments before Verger sprung his trap. Clarice viewed the doctor now as something different, as she looked upon him. Insanely (all of this was absolutely mad) she saw him and knew safety. Knew a sort of peace. He was the storm, bringing chaos always in his wake, but being so near was like sitting in the eye. Serene and deceptively calm.

Whatever her was, (and he was so many vile things) he was no liar. His word was good, and she had traded it against it many times. He told her the locations of Bill's clues, and they were there. He had told her that continuing her association with Jack Crawford would risk her life, and it had. He had told her so many truths about the police-the institution-that she, in that time, had loathed to hear. And one by one they had come true. They would hate her for being a woman and clever, hate her for being a woman and _braver_ , and most of all, they would loathe her worse than the devil himself for being true to her morals, unwavering like a compass not turned by wealth or prospects or help in society.

And Lecter now made to vow to her, something even stronger than a promise or the truth. A vow of fidelity only to her. Was this another of his jokes-wed the little would-be constable in a corset? Surely there was some of that in there-but the clarity in which they held each other's stare...

As they rolled to a stop, Lecter pulled something from his coat pocket and held it out. Her reticule swung from his fingers, heavy with her revolver. She took it, the patched velvet looking sad and miserable on top of her fine grey wool coat and kid gloves. She took out the gun and counted the bullets. All but one.

"Inside is a sort of wedding present."

That was all he said before sliding out of the carriage. One of the chauffeurs hopped down from his seat and pulled down the steps for her. Clarice, staring at the gun, was not sure what to think. A weapon, a loaded weapon, and from a quick inspection, untampered. Stuffing it back into the bag, she peered out at the afternoon sky, shockingly clear for a winter morning in Scotland.

Lecter held out his hand. "Come."

And for the second time, Clarice took his fingers, still blocked by both of their gloves, yet feeling the warmth. He helped her down the steps, as she was still unsteady on her feet. The road was well packed and worn, and a small two-story inn faced them. The sign that swung above the door had no adornments but the letters THE IRON LAMB burned into the cedar. Other than that the road was clear. South down the road, there was the distant scene of a small village and north a tiny chapel. She wondered if it even had a bell in its spindly little steeple.

Clarice finally got a good look at their cab. Not overly flashy, but nothing like the buggies she and Ardelia spoiled themselves with from time to time, trading the discomfort from the patched roofs and moth-eaten seats for the excitement of riding and sparing their feet the labor. Three trunks were strapped to the back, and the driver only took one into the inn.

Following the servant, Miss Starling caught the tail end of the conversation between the plump, cheerful innkeeper's brogue, and Dr. Lecter's velvet tones.

"...be needing a room then, sir?"

"Yes ma'am, and a meal."

"Do you mean to stay the night then?" The innkeeper was smiling knowingly but did not leer with undo humor at their obvious situation.

"I am unsure at the moment." Here the doctor glanced over the woman's head to his companion. "For now, just a place for my lady to freshen up and rest."

"Of course." The woman snapped her fingers at a girl who was wiping down glasses and spoke in quick Gaelic. The fiery-haired child hurried out from behind the bar, straightening her kerchief about her head. Clarice looked down at the young thing, remembering the cloth she had used to keep back her hair as she bent over the decaying corpse of a farmer's daughter, her flesh flayed and the corpse bloated from water. At one time Clarice would have pitied this girl for her small existence in this town, forever doomed to buss and clean until she was married and did the same in some cottage with a babe on her hip. Now...now she was not so proud. She rather envied the way the child glanced at her, in awe of her fine city clothes. The innocence in that look of inspiration.

The girl led her up the small flight of steps to the paid room, directing the chauffeur following to place the trunk at the end of the small bed. "Will you need a maid, miss? Me sister has some experience."

"Oh no, please. I am quite fine on my own." Clarice removed her gloves and hat, wincing as a handkerchief fell onto her cheek, still stuck to her temple by dried blood where the ribbon had kept it in place. She carefully pulled the cloth free as not to reopen the healing wound. The girl's eyes widened before she left, and Clarice despaired somewhat. In even this small way, this child had gotten her first bit of knowing, seeing the gore under the finery. Just like Clarice had when Chief Inspector Krendler had looked at her in that pawing way while dressing down Crawford and his fake offer to the mad doctor.

Glad to be alone, Clarice pulled off her coat and tossed it on the narrow bed, seating herself on top of the trunk. Opening her reticule, she fished inside and brought out the package Lecter had left. Juggling revolver and gift, she dumped the gun carefully into her lap. Inside the brown paper was a compact tin with the Smith & Wesson symbol stamped into the top. Cleaner for her revolver-good stuff too, more expensive than what she had at home, and that was something she made sure to splurge on. No half-witted whippersnapper was going to catch her with a backfiring weapon. Not like…

A wedding present, the doctor said. And he hadn't bought this room for the night. He'd given her back her gun, even the means to make it work perfectly, and left her alone. He never outright asked to marry her, but neither had he demanded it.

Standing, Clarice went to the window. She saw the doctor speaking to their riders, holding the spare horse's reins, and patting its flank. It must have been a steed whisked away from the ball, judging by the fine gold fringe along the bridle. She wondered what crest the saddle bore under the horse blanket.

Of course, he couldn't simply _let_ her go. Have her run back to the city, and throw herself on the mercy of the inspectors, giving them a fresh trail to follow. Even if he left now and rode to the nearest port, she could make it back to London by tea tomorrow and already have the hounds racing to the sea before he even booked passage.

He'd given her a gun and time: a choice. Had she not been so bitter minutes before, deprived of her chance to fight for her life? She could marry him, throw herself into the power of an escaped convict, a man judged mad, her former mentor and, most recently, savior.

Or she could fight her way out. Clarice raised the revolver and aimed right at the back of Lecter's head. The sound of the hammer was loud in her ears. The shattering glass would scar her forever, but it was a clean shot. And while it might not hit him squarely in the skull, it would kill him sooner rather than later.

They were at an impasse, now that there was time for such courtly things as decisions rather than pure survival. And either the marriage bed or coffins awaited them. Death or life, they were still intertwined. _Some of our stars_ …

Clarice lowered the revolver. As if sensing her stalling, Lecter turned and looked up at the window. She did not try to hide her weapon, clear that a choice hadn't been made. His expression never changed. He tipped his hat and returned to the conversation.

Facing the room, warm and welcoming despite being barren. Even empty little inn rooms designed to be blank enough for stranger's comforts were more lived-in than her flat in London. There was a prettyish needlepoint hanging on the wall, obviously done by the aforementioned sister below stairs and there were flowers in a vase next to the bed. Two small things that indicated life-Starling had never done anything like that. Her certificate had hung on the wall in a frame above the heater, the glass growing smokey on the bottom from the steam of the machine. And by the end, it had been a mocking thing, like a portrait of who she was when it was earned growing old and sickly while she, still pretty and young, matched it only on the inside.

And who was she, Starling? She didn't even know herself and here she was on the cusp of giving that name up. What good had it done her? Clarice Starling, what did that mean to anyone? Her name was in the hands of thousands in the form of articles when she was mentioned, used as kindling or fish wrapping, perhaps to line a birdcage. Tossed away without a second glance, and still, in those cases, it got more use.

Clarice Starling of the American Starlings, daughter of a dead cowboy and a washer girl. Starling, struck out from the hospital books, a black mark Mr. Krendler had made through the name.

She and her surname had been passed from hand to hand, Clarice never able to stop the travel, only control, slightly, the way she landed from one place to the next. And here she was, smarting from the latest impact.

She could not feel the warmth of her parent's homespun wisdom-they're experience would have never gotten this far. There was no hand to guide her now. Her own tightened around the gun. Just her, just her choice. _Who am I?_

Clarice was a woman who had run barefoot through freezing English rain to save one lamb. A girl who had crawled through tunnels, over walls, marched through asylums and a mad man's house to save a young woman from death and flaying. She had snuck, and searched and shot on the orders of lesser men in hopes that her actions, like a ripple in a pond, might reach another soul and help them. Save them.

Clarice was a woman who had stolen a dead bride's cloak, a merchant's wagon, and her sometimes employer's invitation to save a life-no matter the quality of man that life sustained. Despite being mired and choked by death all around her, Clarice Starling had always _always_ chosen life.

In reality, her choice had been made the moment she had taken Dr. Lecter's hand that night. Or perhaps even earlier, when she had shot up from her creaking brass-framed bed and stormed to Mr. Crawford's abode with her key and determination.

Clarice undressed and opened the trunk with purpose, rooting around in the new, lovely gowns for something suitable. She pulled out a dress that was more yellow than gold, and thought it would do for the type of venue they had secured.

She ate the dinner sent up to her room quickly, more because she knew she ought than any real hunger. The sun peaked and began its descent as she changed. Lecter had done a fine job in dressing her, no doubt at least knowledgeable about a woman's clothes and their ties. Though she did realize half her aches came from the loosely tied corset that nearly fell off when she got to it. She had slouched for hours in it and felt the ramifications in her bones.

Clarice would, as his wife (how natural the term came to her thoughts without pause), have to rob him of the delusion that it was a fabric torture device as she had seen many magazines complain. Reaching behind with a sharp tug, it straightened her spine, giving her relief and a little more resolve. She patted the silk-covered whalebone fondly before slipping on her wedding gown.

Clarice was at once herself, and not herself. She couldn't quite believe that she was here, in a Scottish inn preparing for an afternoon wedding where she was the bride. It was as if there was some other Clarice Starling here, tying a silk gown on, and fixing the pleats, admiring the lace on the sleeves, feeling clean in her clean clothes. And yet she still made the motions and made do with what she had. She had more than enough practice in that.

The young daughter found her again just as she pulled out a thin evening shawl. It wasn't nearly gauzy enough to be a true veil, but it was translucent and stained a lovely cream that would complement her gown. The scalloped edges would fall pleasantly around her shoulders and the tiny gold birds would give some decorations to the rather plain ensemble. Fitting too, that her namesake adorn her whilst she was discarding it at last. After all, she would only do this once. It would do.

"The gentleman asks if you'll be coming down, miss."

Clarice, looking into the mirror, ignoring her reflection in favor of watching her hands pinning the shawl to her hat. "Yes, please tell him I will be down presently. If you could take my trunk with you? We won't be needing the room after all."

Before she left, Clarice lifted the wildflowers from the vase, dabbing at the stems with the washbasin towel to dry it. Clutching her makeshift bouquet, Clarice carefully picked her way down the staircase, the veil over her face casting the world in a haze.

Dr. Lecter was placing gold coins into the matron's hands, talking quietly with her large, gruff husband. From what she saw, the payment was more than a few hours in the room and a bowl of stew warranted and was perhaps for the silence.

"Are you sure you'd not rather stay, sir?"

"Thank you, ma'am, but no. I must get my bride home as soon as I may. For her health."

Clarice waited patiently by the door and thanked the owners quietly. The inn keeper's wife declared her very pretty, and patted her hand gently, wishing felicity and quick recovery for her head. The doctor led her out onto the road but did not touch her. "It's a small walk to the chapel. After spending the whole day in the carriage I thought it might be beneficial unless you find it too cold."

"I am well," she assured, tugging her gloves on tighter. Gathering up her gown and coat train, they started towards the church.

"I must thank you again."

"For?"

"My life. You've spared it a second time."

"Some might say I merely saved my own."

"Some people will simply state we are in love."

Clarice only paused slightly in her step at his echoed words. He'd teased her thus once before. Had she been too blind to see it then, so blind to everything…

No. She would not deceive herself that this was some clandestine romance. Such a notion cheapened their connection, she felt. It was so much more, whatever they were. More understood than acknowledged, Clarice recalled once more.

The chapel was just as small as she imagined as Lecter held open the red door for her. The pews had no separation for class, there were no such distinctions in the village below. and instead were roughly hewn and cramped. By the altar the vicar stood, helping his wife and another young man who would witness light the candles. It seemed Dr. Lecter had been busy while she decided and dressed. Or he had sent word ahead, anticipating her actions. Well, she had ample time to question him.

The introductions were made quickly, though later Clarice would never be able to recall the name of the man who bound her to the monster. She merely stood at her side of the altar, staring up at the only-slightly tarnished gold cross nailed to the back wall behind the pulpit. Clarice was herself and not herself. She knew what she was doing, knew she _wanted_ to do it, and on some superficial levels _had_ to do it, but it was as if her brain was catching up with the rest of her consciousness. Where was the fear? The constant self-doubt and dilemma that always plagued her when choosing a course of action? Where had it been since the inspectors upturned her flat and found the fake letter and perfume?

She was drawn out of such reveries by the vicar beginning, calling the meager five gathered to hear a dearly beloved congregation. Clarice glanced at her groom and to her surprise saw him solemn and serious. His hat and coat being held by the young man beside him, he even tilted his chin down when the vicar began to pray, though his eyes remained open. It seemed he still had some uses for God, and they were all tied to her. Or perhaps it was _because_ of her. The only other time he had not mocked was her confession in a town not too far from here…

When he took her hand to pledge his vow, Clarice observed just how much larger his was in comparison. It could have very easily wrapped around her neck at any time, however, it simply held her fingers lightly, as if cradling a small injured animal.

"Will you, Victor Harris, have this woman to be your wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony; will you love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto her, so long as you both shall live?"

"I will." In the candlelight his eyes pinwheeled with fiery light, points of red ever fixed upon her. It had only been two days after seven years, and yet, she was already so used to them. They had stared back at her from the portraits of her memory, conjured up when she needed courage. After all, she had survived him, what need she fear? She couldn't remember when she began to conjure the doctor, no longer her mother, for strength. Only that it had been a long time...

"Clarice Starling, will you have this man to be your wedded husband to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony; will you obey him," and here Dr. Lecter's countenance finally broke, lips twitching and head tilting to the side, "serve him, love, honor, and keep him, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto him, so long as you both shall live?"

"I will." _Try_ , she added quietly, her own lips twitching. He knew very well what type of bride he was getting. After all her reticule hung heavy around the hand clutching her bouquet. False name or not, Dr. Lecter knew better than anyone.

The doctor gently tugged off her glove and from a breast pocket produced a simple golden ring. She saw that there was etching on the inside, but could not make it out in the low light. He must have bought it in London. Well, perhaps her reputation was merely tarnished rather than in tatters. He slid it along her finger, vowing his unending faithfulness (unlike her mentors, guardians, and employers of his she had no doubt) and worldly goods (of which, she was sad to say she had already confiscated in searching for him, finding at least one of his false names and residences in the city).

He handed her his own band, and after giving the vicar's wife her bouquet, she performed the same service. His palm burned against hers where she held it, and almost in reply, the place on her throat and collar where he had caressed at the ball burned under her dress as well.

"What God has joined, let no man tear asunder." _They haven't yet_ , she thought. Neither time, nor distance, nor law of God or man had pulled them apart yet. They were bound, and these words were just that. Words. The forms placed delicately atop their completed arch; more decoration than foundation. In all these seven years when she had been so utterly alone, she had carried the mark of his kindness about her like a talisman against the bitter encroaching loneliness. Always alone save for the memories. _For better or for worse_ …

"Mr. Harris…" The vicar smiled and gestured, giving the doctor leave to kiss his bride.

Clarice swallowed and waited for him to lift her makeshift veil. She had more than earned this, having paid for it in blood, surviving a house of horrors, and a bullet for want of a kiss in a darkened passage. But Dr. Lecter made no move to unmask her. Instead, he leaned down and pressed his cheek to hers, the corner of his mouth brushing the apple of her cheek. It still left an invisible brand on the flesh, despite being separated by silk netting.

But her hand he held onto, tucking it safely into the crook of his arm while their witnesses stepped forward to shake his hand in congratulations. Clarice, suddenly so very tired, smiled as much as she was able, electing to let her head rest against his arm. It was his hold that was keeping her up now.

They were directed to another room to sign the registry, Lecter going first, writing his new moniker in his elegant copperplate. He stood by her side as she bent over the large book, her veil whispering along the parchment page. Her hand was surprisingly steady as she wrote the letters _Clarice Starling_ for the very last time. She lingered over the curling scrawl as if to bid the name and the girl who has once attached to it goodbye, straightening up and walking out of the church a different woman.

She had been passed on again, dumped from the dregs of her former life into the role of a wife. But this time she had not simply steered the motion of the fall, but had stepped over the edge and jumped. And this landing was much softer than all the others. Still, Clarice was exhausted from the drop.

Their next carriage ride was a quiet one. Now the doctor elected to sit beside her, offering his hand. She held his thumb, and after a few minutes of fighting it, leaned against his shoulder slightly as she began to nod. Every time she glanced up, she found him already staring at her. She asked him why once, and he merely replied, "It is extremely pleasant to look at you."

It was dark when they made it to their final destination. The manor house was surrounded by trees, and from what she could see by torchlight, in front there was a circular drive ringed around a stately looking evergreen and a few well-manicured bushes. The silhouette of the house looked stately against the night, wide and two-storied. Even without seeing the contours and particulars, Clarice knew it was a fine estate.

Their arrival was expected, it seemed, as a few servants waited for them in the doorway, a stable boy immediately going to the spare horse, and leading it around back, whilst a footman assisted the drivers in taking down their luggage. A woman some ten years older than Clarice strutted forward purposefully and introduced herself as the housekeeper, merely bowing to the doctor before encouraging Clarice inside with the promise of a bath and tea.

Within the house, it was clear there had been no moves to add electricity as of yet, and so Clarice and the keeper moved by candlelight illuminating only a small space before and after them, passing still-covered paintings and furniture before they were once again devoured by the darkness. The staff must have arrived only hours before them, Lecter's missive perhaps only a little faster than their coach.

Exhaustion robbed Clarice of her modesty, and despite never having a maid dress or undress her, she allowed the woman to tug at her laces and gently slide the cloth off. It also slew her curiosity, only allowing herself a quick glance around the chamber that was now hers. It was large, she gathered, as the candle's light barely reached the walls from its place in the middle of the room. But beyond that she could not see, nor did she much care. She knew there was a bed and she was eager to be in it. Her head was starting to pound again.

What the bathroom lacked in electric light it more than made up for in the large marble tub with its copper piping. Hot water poured from the tap and filled quickly, steam hovering on the surface to buffer the bath from the cold room. Soon Clarice was left alone with nothing but the comforting lap of water and a cup of tea placed on a nearby table. She didn't even bother with the drink, instead savoring the feel of letting her limbs float in the soothing bath, her head cushioned on a plush towel.

She listened to the sounds of the housekeeper dismantling her trunk and starting a fire in the bedchamber. Vaguely she wondered if she would hear the doctor's footsteps as well, and would find his lithe figure waiting for her when she exited. _Not that I'd be much use_ , she mused. She'd likely fall asleep the moment her head hit the pillow, and it would be a shame to miss her own consummation.

Amusement turned to wakefulness, and she turned inward, inspecting the sudden heaviness in her chest. It was not dread or fear of the relative unknown, and it was not terror of the man himself. To demand and take would be the height of discourtesy, something he found more loathsome than blood and murder. It was more familiar than that, more like...exhilaration. The same emotion that had gripped her heart when he had pulled her close and lamented about their lack of time, or when she stalked closer to the barn balcony, gun hidden in her skirts.

Now that she had identified the emotion, she was more aware of it, aware of herself and how her heartbeat heavy in her chest as she rose and dried, changed into a nightgown, and crawled into the large four-poster bed, already warmed by a heating pan under the mattress. She sat against the headboard, propped up by plump goose down pillows she was too distracted to appreciate, eyes flickering from the roar of the newly made fire to the shadowy outline of the door.

After all, it _was_ their wedding night.

Clarice drew her knees to her chest under the covers and wrapped her arms around them. Perhaps it wasn't all exhilaration either. There was some reserve. What she had unfortunately witnessed those few times stumbling upon an occupied couple looked rough and quick. She knew what happened; all the parts and physical reactions to stimuli in a clinical sense. But common knowledge of an adult and medical education was vastly different than first-hand experience.

And how did one exactly go about telling your husband whom you almost tupped in a dark hallway that despite the unladylike, and to most unholy, amount of enthusiasm she had for want of him, you were in fact a novice in the art? She scowled at her shadowy bedroom door. She'd loathe to prove all those whelps at the precinct and hospital right when they had-loudly-assumed she'd be a cold fish in bed if anyone ever got the chance. Though the doctor probably already assumed this with the same accuracy as he had the general sum of her history when they first met.

And he wanted her if it wasn't more than obvious by now. Clarice knew when a man wanted her-Mr. Brigham had, poor good soul. And many had wanted to wed her in the beginning, to own the London Tailor's murderer, while others had simply wanted to bed her, either for the macabre air of mystery about her or because of the face that earned her both praise and hatred. And though he was nowhere near such common vulgarity, the doctor _was_ a man. And considering the snickers and winks around his reputation before the arrest, he had experience and talent.

Talent Clarice would like to know. It wasn't that she did not have opportunity, but she was a straight-laced girl, and the risk always seemed far too great for the few moments of pleasure stolen here or there. That, however, couldn't kill her curiosity. She wanted to know what exactly was so wondrous that men dueled over others stealing it from their wives and daughters, that caused poets and composers alike to prattle on endlessly about it, giving it very polite names for polite society. She had a taste of it, between her admiration of Mr. Brigham and her undeniable attraction to the doctor, but it was a game meant for two. Exploration alone would only get her so far.

But the night dragged on, the clock chiming later and later. Soon sleep won out over the anticipation. She attempted to keep her eyes up, to fight as long as she could. At first, she attempted to calculate how many days could have passed between the ball and now. Then she set about examining her ring and the engraved _nisi per mortem_. But it grew harder and harder to concentrate, each time she jerked awake, she had sunk deeper and deeper into her pillows and onto the mattress proper. A few times she awoke to a sound in the hall, a thump from downstairs, or the creak of the manor settling in the night.

Once she swore someone had been in the room, stoking the fire and touching her temple, but by that time the flame was low in the hearth and it was difficult to tell which shadows surrounding her bed were dreams and which were her actual company.


End file.
